


Sleepwalker

by AlexielCasey



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, FrostIron - Freeform, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 03:45:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexielCasey/pseuds/AlexielCasey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki's relationship with Stark had taken an odd turn-- from murderous impulses to something strangely akin to companionship. And sex. A great deal of sex. With reality masked as dreams, things were going well. Until they weren't. </p><p>Now captive, The God of Mischief does what he needs to survive. If one can really call it surviving. Some things broken, simply cannot be fixed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken English

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline is nebulous-- sometime after the Avengers is all I've got. Originally a one shot, now a series, and I won't be a dick and take a year to post a new chapter. Again. Promise. 
> 
> Archive warnings start to apply in chapter 2.

 Anthony Stark had all sorts of interesting little quirks. When he stilled, he did not quiet himself like a scared beast as so many humans did. The only evidence he noted the taller shadow on the wall at all was that his shoulders leveled and remained so as he placed the crystal stopper back in the decanter. 

Loki willed himself behind him, reappearing with one arm around the other man's waist and the other across his shoulders, the flat of his hand over the hollow between his collarbones. It took quite a few nights of experimentation to find the best way to approach and not end up with Anthony thinking he was actually there to kill him and fought back accordingly. This way, it seemed, he remained wary but not violent. He ghosted his lips over Tony's ear, brushing the edge in a mockery of a kiss. "Miss me?" 

"Miss my crazy enemy that more often tries to kill me than not? Nah." Tony took a drink of the scotch he'd poured, steadfastly ignoring the overly familiar way Loki was touching him. He was standoffish today-- a poor day of training, perhaps. "I've got plenty of other people that want to kill me." 

"Oh come now." Loki said, keeping his voice low, "If I was going to kill you, I would have." He tapped the reactor, fingernail making a soft click against the material. "Surely you don't think me quite so incompetent. And besides, I have it on good authority you enjoy my company." 

"Oh?" Tony turned his head slightly, toward Loki. "Whose, then?" 

"Why, yours, of course. You didn't think all those delightful little dreams were just in your head, did you?" Tony shifted his weight. Subtle, but a reaction all the same. Loki smirked, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. "Oh yes, I know. All these many months." 

Six, to be precise. Six months ago, he had appeared in Stark Tower fully intending to rip the reactor from Tony's chest and crush it after a particularly painful defeat. Instead of finding Stark cackling over his victory, he'd found the man shamefully drunk on his sofa, staring through the ceiling. The only response Loki had received when looming over him was "If you're going to keep standing there, get me a refill, would you please?" 

The surprising lack of ego had caught Loki off guard, enough so that he decide to refrain from bloodshed for the moment and speak to the man instead. Stark had been injured, and afterward was ripped into by the ever virtuous Thor and Captain American for taking foolish chances. He had also been "dumped," as the Midgardian phrase goes, a month before, culminating into quite the poor day indeed. He swore at Pepper occasionally, but mostly at himself, and was surprisingly witty and articulate for being so inebriated. 

"Why are you here alone? Drink is fine, but surely some wench would have you to serve as distraction. That seems your norm."

"Hah. My girlfriend ran off with my driver and I can't blame her. I really don't feel like playing spin the shot glass with some socialite that will fake an orgasm and then try to threaten me with a pregnancy scare. Unless you and that fuckable mouth of yours are volunteering, I'm happy alone, thanks." 

Loki had laughed, turning the mostly empty tumbler in his hands. "I was under the distinct impression I was sorely lacking in the particular charms you prefer, so I am afraid I will pass." 

The mortal had lifted the arm he'd thrown across his eyes and replied, "What if I said you really should never assume anything?" He had motioned Loki closer and when he'd refused to move, the god had found himself with a lap full of Midgardian genius attempting to kiss the life out of him. Frankly, he had been disinclined to stop him, given that his particular day was miserable as well and even if the man was a frustration, he was the only person thus far that could keep up with Loki in conversation. And they did converse more, after. It was then it was decided that the best option for both of them was to have Anthony forget the encounter ever happened- save a few fragments, to seem as though it was a dream rather than a black out that would rouse suspicion and possible medical treatment. 

Over the course of the months, they had partnered, but before and after they spoke, usually at greatest length right before Loki pushed Anthony into a spell laced sleep and erased any evidence of his visit there, save some small thing he could not help leaving. There was the scratch across Anthony's coffee table from the buckles of Loki's long coat during one particularly rough evening. The set of glassware that was now one short behind the bar in his bedroom, the missing piece having been balanced precariously on the top edge of Anthony's shower door closure. Something to make him wonder if it had actually been a dream or something more. 

"Y'know, I had been wondering when that whole orientation thing flipped on me." The mortal didn't move away when Loki kissed his neck. The first few moments were always the most difficult. The grousing, and then the comment about not being "into" Loki's "type" despite every little twitch being into Loki's touch and the distinct lack of struggle. Once started, they alternated taking the lead-- it didn't matter who ended up on top, or who pinned who to what wall. Neither one wanted to admit the encounters were real, and the lies lent them a surprising amount of freedom as there was simply no point in lying when you couldn't tell anyone anyway. Thus, it didn't matter who was pressed against the mattress, clawing at the sheets. There was no need for dominance to be satisfied and as a result, their activities had been many and varied. The feeling of Anthony swallowing around him while the sun rose behind the glass doors was particularly pleasant memory. 

"I don't claim to have anything to do with that, I cannot corrupt anything that doesn't want to be corrupted." Loki released the other man, reappearing sitting on the bar. As expected, Anthony faltered, having shifted most of his weight to rest against Loki. "You know," Loki leaned back on the wooden surface, cocking his head to the side, "I'd almost say you weren't glad to see me." 

"You haven't killed me yet, that's an improvement over most times we actually meet." 

"Yes, but aren't all the times we haven't actually met much better?" Anthony's eyes narrowed and Loki laughed before continuing. "Oh, do stop playing the blushing maid. I'm here, and willing, and further--" He glanced down at the black pajama bottoms Tony wore. "You're not exactly unwilling yourself." 

The shorter man took a step forward, between two bar stools. "Anyone ever tell you you talk way too much?" 

Loki smiled. "As surely as others have told you the same. Care to 'shut me up,' as the saying goes?" 

Anthony grinned and half dragged Loki off the bar into a kiss, the god's shoulders falling off the bar a full minute before he had the presence of mind to move them to the bed. 

Just as he remembered, Anthony -- called such because 'Tony" seemed entirely too plebeian the longer Loki spent around him-- tasted of scotch, soot, and tended toward biting more so than actual kisses. While he was distracted with sucking and biting Loki's lower lip, Loki yanked off the undershirt he wore, sliding his hands over his lover's shoulders. The musculature there fascinated him, from the texture and shape to the way it felt as he moved. The exquisite pain of Anthony's teeth moved from his lip to his neck, and upon checking his lip, Loki tasted blood. Good. Perfect, even. 

While Loki was distracted with the pain at his neck, Anthony busied himself with unbuttoning the green shirt Loki wore, tearing it open and scattering buttons after getting impatient half way through. He punctuated the movement with a triumphant growl before tracing calloused fingers down Loki's side, occasionally catching on a barely raised scar, pearl white against pale skin. He kissed down Loki's chest and back up, eventually tracing the artery up Loki's neck with his tongue, tasting salt and something akin to the cold snap of wind at the beginning of fall-- frost brushed with decay and smoke. The god arched under the touch, giving him the opportunity to tug his pants off. 

Anthony hissed when Loki ran a hand along his length, the pajama bottoms still in the way. As his lover rocked into the touch, Loki pulled him down by the back of the neck to lay flush against him, pressing their lips together as he rolled his hips up against him, providing them both with desperately needed friction. Anthony rewarded him with a moan and let Loki's tongue into his mouth, preoccupied with grinding against the god's hips. 

Loki walked his fingers down the other man's back, tracing his spine, moving in tandem as much as he was able. He grasped Anthony's hips hard enough to bruise, guiding them to the best spot, intoxicated with want. This was all he looked forward to anymore. Banished from his home, alone, but in the few moments they paired he felt a type of rush only battle previously provided. The many losses and wants surrendered before the overwhelming need to touch, to feel everything, to have every inch of skin alight with sensation. The world condensed to fill the bed they shared and the pressure of Anthony's hardness against his stomach wound Loki up with horrible need, the need to destroy something, anything. It was then he yanked Anthony back by the hair, exposing his throat and sucking hard at the delicate skin, marking it dark with a bruise while forcing his hand between them to encircle their lengths and humming in delight at the soft whine he heard, pressed against his lover's throat. 

Of course, with Anthony Stark, nothing was ever static. Loki felt a pressure on his arm and found himself pulled hard to the side, snarling in surprise as Anthony pressed against his back, thrusting into the cleft of his ass.  
"My turn," Anthony said, dragging his nails down Loki's sides, "If this really is a dream, you were on top last time, remember?" 

The god writhed against the mattress, managing to get his knees beneath him before he found his arm twisted behind his back, intensifying the low throb in his abdomen as his vision sparked with pain. "You know not what you do, mortal." He bit back a moan at the sensation of his cock, heavy with need, swinging untouched while Anthony restrained him. "I'll have your head for mounting on my wall." 

"I think I do know. And, by the way, you're the one grinding your ass against my dick." Loki flushed, forcing his hips to still, swearing into the pillows. Anthony laughed and nudged Loki's legs apart, a cold, slick finger soon circling his entrance. "So, way I see it, you're a lot more interested in my mounting you than the other way around." 

He could have moved. Forced his way out of the position. There was no question between the two of who was the stronger, given the absence of Anthony's suit. However, the aching need to destroy went both ways. Loki wanted to tear the world asunder, yes-- but he would also settle with being destroyed himself. His breath hitched as he felt Anthony's finger breech his body, the world seeming to go hazy and his will to fight failing him. His hands, previously twisted so tightly in the sheets they threatened to tear, slackened. And, worst of all, his body traitorously rocked back into intrusion, whimpering when Tony pulled away. 

To exist in such dichotomy physically pained him. On one hand, he wanted to kill Anthony for tricking him and reversing their positions, but on the other side it had taken such effort to drag him into bed in the first place all these nights. Surely a rest wouldn't be overly--

"Ah!" 

"Then don't totally space out on me. I thought you'd passed out on me." Anthony curled the two fingers slightly, pressing harder on the sensitive area just behind Loki's groin. The proper name for it, per an anatomy text, was his prostate, but Anthony had annoyingly started simply referring to it as Loki's "shut up button." Even through the half hazy details, it seems, Anthony remembered enough from the previous couplings to at least have a vague idea of what did and did not work. Somewhere around the end of the second month Anthony had retained enough to realize that Loki, god or no, lost all thought when he applied pressure there. 

The inside of Loki's head went blank and he forgot to stifle himself in the sheets, a gasp escaping, laced with another cry. Anthony kept moving, thrusting into the spot over and over again, adding another finger. Surely, he was enjoying every moment of it, having a god of old spread wanton and panting before him, helpless before need for pleasure above all things. He was normally so controlled, so guarded, so detached, and here he was-- unable to stop himself from heeding the basest wants any being could engage in. Anthony's erection pressed against Loki's hips, twitching as Loki rocked back and dragging a frustrated sound from Anthony. At least there was that consolation -- Anthony was as affected as he. 

The next moments blurred, as they always did. He hadn't any idea if it was the overload of sensation or the needing to forget, in his own waking life, that he felt most alive and Midgard seemed least like torture when he was buried hip deep in Anthony or reversed. Either way, Loki remembered pieces-- he felt the sharpness of the stretch around Anthony's cock. He felt the hand on his back when tears pricked his eyes as he adjusted, impatience having gotten the better of the both of them. He remembered a jab of something much more painful in his chest when Anthony soothed him and forcing his lover back into the moment by taking in the last few inches in one solid, painful push back. He remembered the sticky texture of Anthony's skin, the scrape of the reactor against his spine. He remembered, buried face down in the pillows and moaning like a whore, wishing he could steal one of the pillows and keep the metallic tinge of metal over expensive cologne and shaving soap close always, for whenever he felt alone. He remembered choking out Anthony's name in an almost sob as he came, and the hot, filthy wonderful sensation of Anthony's orgasm soon after. 

He lay against the sheets flirting with sleep for a long while, the fingers in his hair pushed away as being imagined. Sweat and sex interlaced in the air and Anthony's reactor cast a white pool of light, arching over his chest, rising and falling in the darkness. The very world seemed to still, lost falling again through space and time and Anthony the only anchor. All of it common after effects of sex, of course. All of it simply in his head, only so real as he allowed it to become. He felt he should have fought harder, should have rebuffed the soft kisses laid over him, should have done something. He had once been worshiped, a god of fire, ice, and lies, feared and loathed and respected and here he lay with one of the very beings he supposedly had dominion over, helpless.

Anthony's voice startled him out of his stupor. "How long are we going to pretend this is a dream?" The hand in Loki's hair moved and his eyes fell closed again, the sensation over his scalp undoing the tension the sudden sound had caused. It was almost enough to make him lazy, to lean into the languid strokes and miss that Anthony's voice was edged with something akin to sadness. Akin, but not the same as. 

"You always will." Loki replied, keeping his voice soft. "We agreed, though you may not remember. It's better this way, for both of us." 

"What if it isn't?" 

A razor wire wound through Loki's chest, pulling tight against the opposing forces of fool's hope and panic. "We agreed," he repeated, keeping his voice level. "However miserable we may be, this would not work, and we well know it. We also agreed attachment was the purest form of stupidity possible on both our parts-- you are mine enemy, and I yours." 

"I don't usually make my enemies come while screaming my name." 

Loki shut his eyes and sighed. "Anthony--" 

"You always called me 'Stark,' before. Now it's Anthony. Don't insult my intelligence by saying you don't feel something. You're the one that keeps coming back." 

Cornered, the catch tightened. "We agreed." 

"To hell with what we agreed." The hand in Loki's hair stilled, the arm around him tightening. "You don't get it, this works. I'm not wasted every goddamn night. My head isn't so full of garbage I have to black out for a few hours for some relief. And besides, you said once if you could, you'd stay." 

Loki's eyes snapped open. He'd said that once. Once, when Anthony asked him to stay, to not wake up alone. It was right before he'd touched his fingers to Anthony's temple, weaving the spell over his thoughts. He should not have been able to remember at least the few hours prior. The sex, yes, as that was always at the beginning of the evening. Not the immediate hours before the spell, not the talk of books, their miserable families, not explaining sports and every other strange Midgardian custom that perplexed him. Not the evening he'd told him of the torture, or the loss of composure soon after. He always planned it so those things would be erased. He might recall impressions or feelings, but no phrases. 

If he remembered that, he remembered much more. Much, much more. 

"Hey," Anthony squeezed his shoulder and the world refocused, "Hey, come on, stay with me here. I said I wanted to not pretend this didn't happen, I didn't propose." 

"You remember." 

He saw the outline of Anthony's shoulder rise in a shrug. "I don't, actually, but after I started missing glasses from the bar and things kept either disappearing or getting damaged, I checked the security feeds and--" 

Loki vanished and Tony ended up face down in the sheets with a curse. He shouted for him to come back, that he was glad, that it was so much better than thinking he'd finally lost it, that he wouldn't tell anyone regardless-- that nothing changed-- 

Loki didn't come back that night. Not visibly. In reality, he had simply retreated, cowering in the corner, shaking. His voice, it seemed, had abandoned him. He had watched as Anthony worked his way through the two decanters of scotch in the bedroom by dawn, passing out on the bed somewhere around the time he was supposed to be meeting with someone at Stark Industries. He had watched and fastened shut his heart, but could not bring himself to leave. 

Mortals were by and large worthless. Temperamental. Changable. Arrogant. Why was this one so special?

He would stay. If only to make sure Stark didn't drink himself to death. After all, it would raise suspicion if he died. It would only cause more problems for the God of Mischief, at least until he could destroy the evidence of their coupling. For now, he would wait. 

No one had to know how he chose to pass the hours. No one would ever know, including Anthony.

Pressed to the other man's back, he locked the doors and cast wards, enchantments, and wrapping them both in protective magic before sleep claimed him. They would be safe, this way. Wound together for the last time. 


	2. Broken Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the great truths of the universe is that things can always get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here archive warnings begin to apply.

 

He woke, if one could call it that, to a spiraling world of pain.

 

Granted, he didn’t expect much else. The alarms had gone off, the hexes and the charms dissolving, the tripwires and latches broken. He'd known someone, eventually, would come looking for Anthony, passed out as he was. That's what the spells were for. But whatever sleep Loki had fallen into, it was deep enough all his careful alarm bells went unnoticed. Someone was there. Someone that was no friend to him. And yet, he was so stupidly seduced by his mortal, and distraught at the idea of losing him due to his own foolishness, that Loki wouldn’t, or couldn't, move from crook of his neck.

 

Thankfully, sensations stayed very, very far away. Being thrown about was muted. The crack of his shoulder against the metal wall, bones in the joint crashing together and the sharp fire dulling into an ache as he stuck where he landed, biding his time. The dull ache turning to a tension, a burning, an indescribable  _itch_ to move and remove the stick of the joint. Twisting to fall on his other side was relief that was well worth the kick by his captors.

Of course, he recognized it all, from the withdrawn place in his mind where consciousness laid. Steel, rubber. Chemical stink of synthetic fabrics, and the dusky smell of gunpowder in all its sharp edges, wedging its way into his nose.

 

S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

He made some comment about hospitality, and darkness came as a gift, wrought by the butt of some kind of rifle.

 

When he next opened his eyes, everything was white. A cell. A blinding white cell. And heat, such heat.

  
And nausea.

 

He shuffled backward, away from whatever bile he coughed up, running into a corner and pressed into the soft wall. Soft like Anthony’s bed. His pillows. His voice, when he--

 

A man's voice broke into his thoughts. Of course. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s ever meddling Director, Fury.  _“Enjoying that?”_ He said, voice falling from some hidden speaker overhead. “ _Special cell we made up in case you ever came back. And some special medication, to help short circuit that smart mouth of yours. There will be no sitting in a cell and_ _monologuing_ _your grand plan, you get that? There’s this. Maybe, if you tell us what you were up to with Stark, we’ll turn it down a few degrees.”_

 

“What’s the colloquialism here on Midgard? That we were 'fuck buddies?'” Shut up. You’ll incriminate Anthony. Difficult as it is to string sentences together, dry and hideously hot as it is,  _think._

 

“ _How many times did you have to poke him with that voodoo stick to get him to bed you, exactly?”_

 

“None, you worthless filth.” The bile was stabbing upward, and the  _heat,_ the room tilted and he jostled. Had he twitched, or did he hit the ground? What was he wearing. He clawed at the neck of the button up he still wore, tearing it open. the air was barely cooler, but it was better- better than-

 

The scar on his hip throbbed, and the voice shouted while he curled into himself. Knives and instruments, chemicals and poison. Heat and ice and being dragged back to the living so many times.

 

Oh Hel. Find me. Anything is better than a repeat of this.

 

He choked and the world went black once more. But it was no quiet bliss of unconsciousness. It was dark, before pinpricks of green-blue light, flashes of bronze in torchlight, pressed into his mind.

 

_We’ve been waiting for you, Odinson._

 

 

Skin, peeled. Bones, broken. Nerves, lit on fire, severed and reattached in painful, rapid healing that cared nothing for the being that had to endure it. Heated and heated and the pale exterior melting away and the blue giving through beneath in the last moments before death. Death, which came again and again and his soul stayed pinned to a broken body and he had to live through the horrible repair process.

 

Scars he hadn’t let Anthony see. Scars from a smashed pelvis, from skin being stripped away, and from red hot pokers carving crude designs into his flesh along thin, blue lines.

 

Something touched him. He ripped it off, and threw it across the room. Arm, stick, whatever it may have been. Someone was screaming and the corner was the furthest point away from the noise, his head was filled with molten iron and painful, jagged stones.

 

He pulled his knees to his chest, moving, trying to disappear. In space, in time, in magic, anything was possible. He found a dark place inside himself, far away. Pulling away from the strings holding him to the skin, the sweating, bleeding skin, and inward, into dark. Dark, alone. Safe. Anthony. Dark nights with Anthony, talking.

 

Trying to disappear, and little else, he passed his days. The desperation, the  _itch._ The blood flowing from his flesh was almost a relief, the sweat couldn’t come fast enough. Sticky, covered in salt and his insides trying to heave themselves through his mouth. Well. That wasn’t anything new. If anything, this was better. The Chitauri had stuck to the classics. Needles under the nails. Breaking fingers. Puncturing ear drums with sharpened tools. Purposeful infection and fever dreams that followed. the winnowing away of every reserve of strength, with time. That was the trouble with humans, of course. So utterly impatient. Perhaps their short life spans were at fault for that particular quirk. That or their endless need to  _consume._

 

 

They kept stabbing him. Poking, prodding, with needles and the drugs they carried. Drugs to speed up the decay. It wasn’t for information. This was to break him. He didn’t even remember questions being asked, and if they were, they were answered in a tongue long dead, which was taken as a mark of cheek. Shamefully, it was the first, and only, language that came to mind through the horrific pain and haze. The first sewn into his tongue. English, Coptic, Latin, all of those came long after. They were too far away to reach, from the pit he hid in.

 

After a while, the sensations dulled, much to his captors dismay. And the healing process, so quick when he was originally healthy, slowed. They did get creative, however. The beating the soles of his feet with pipes was creative, and excruciating. He’d heard of it, researching humanity on Midgard. It created bright bursts of pain, stars of green followed by clouds of murky brown green in front of his eyes. Creative. A new sensation. He’d catalog those. Swallow the information, file it away. Pain.

 

The drugs were worse. They smeared his thoughts, chalk on slate, blood on tile, drying and cracking and flaking before he could even truly comprehend what they were supposed to be. It was all abstraction. It was a failing. A failure. He couldn’t think. He spoke, he breathed through a traitorous body that simply wouldn’t  _die._

 

 

A body that previously, he’d began to despise less, given every pleasure under Anthony’s touch. From eroticism to sweetness, the gold honey sound of his laugh and the way his muscles twisted in his back in the mirror on the bathroom sink as Loki pounded into him, Anthony’s fingers twisting his hair and the pain turning to gilded, black laced pleasure.

 

He thought, perhaps, this was death. Being separate from one’s body and unable to move. it seemed to fit closely enough. He’d stay. Make his home here, far away.

There was nothing left for him on Midgard anyway.

  
  


\----

  
  


“What have you done to him?” Thor demanded. Loki curled tighter in the corner of the cell, eyes closed. The thin shirt and pants he wore stuck to his skin. It could have been the light, but it seemed Loki had somehow become even more slender, the hollows of his cheeks pronounced to the point it was nearly grotesque.

  
“We caught him compromising one of our agents. We neutralized the threat, and in the process of gathering information, he became non responsive.” Director Fury folded his hands behind his back. “We’ve given him the best medical care possible, to no avail. Given the circumstances, contacting Asgard seemed the best recourse.”

 

A leaden feeling settled somewhere in his chest, watching Loki flinch away from the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent that helped him to his feet, dragging him through a door and out of sight. “Director Fury, while Loki’s crimes are unforgivable, surely this was not-”

 

“He became unresponsive during a routine interrogation, Thor.” Fury dialed something into his ever present mobile device. “We did nothing to him we wouldn’t do to any other prisoner.”

 

The heavy feeling tightened, twisting into a dense, angry knot. “And the fever he seems to have? And delirium?”

 

“Its origin is unknown. Maybe it’s some sort of space flu, that’s why we called  _you.”_ Fury tucked the device back in his coat. “Are you going to take him or not?”

 

Thor’s nails dug into his palm. “And if I did not, would you give him more of your ‘medical care?’”

 

Fury didn’t flinch. He blinked. Not with surprise, or offense- simply a reflexive action as normal as breathing. “I don’t know what you are implying.”

 

“May I remind you, Director, that Asgard, presently, is Midgard’s first line of defense against threats from the other Nine Realms.” He said. A woman walked in, hair tied back in a severe bun, carrying a clipboard. The same one that had taken Loki from the room they had viewed on the screen before them. “We are a valuable ally, and mistreatment, even of one such as Loki, is not something we could readily ignore. His crimes committed on Midgard were despicable, but it has recently come to light that he may not have acted of his own free will.”

 

The woman stepped forward. “He is ready for transport, Director.”

 

Fury nodded, turning to Thor. “We appreciate your continued alliance with us here on Earth, Thor. We would do nothing to endanger that, thus why when we couldn’t fix whatever happened to your adoptive brother  _we called you.”_ He motioned for Thor to follow, the woman leading the way out of the door, swiping a security card as she went. “A lesser nation would have just let whatever he had take it’s course. You may not like it, but Loki pissed off a lot of people here on Earth and they all want a piece of his hide. Be thankful we found him.” A few twists and turns down the corridor and they stopped outside a steel door. “He’s just inside. Good luck.”

 

He watched Fury stride off, the woman with the clipboard following close behind, and checked to ensure no other S.H.I.E.L.D. eyes were roaming about before opening the door.

 

The rocky core of anger in his chest was butted aside by horror. Horror, and worry. Loki was inside, wrapped in a new set of clothes that made it obvious he had become even more rawboned in his captivity, however long that had been. His hair was wet and the scent of hard soap stuck in the air, new bandages on his knuckles and forearms. He looked tiny, curled up and shivering on the padded bench of the small holding cell, eyes open to slits, arms crossed over his chest. “Loki?”

Loki twitched, turning his face to the wall, eyes falling shut completely. He shuffled his feet, bringing them closer, twisting inward. 

 

“Brother?” He moved, kneeling, moving into Loki’s line of sight. They had fought, they had  _warred._ Surely there was some reaction. Some sneer, some asinine comment Loki held back. It was all a farce, a cheeky trick to get back into Asgardian custody he had escaped so readily. The cuffs in Thor’s belt pouch would be necessary. He’d fight, he’d snarl. He’d needle Thor and tease and taunt in an effort to get his way and talk his way out of chains.

 

Loki didn’t stir. Not then, and not when Thor snapped the cuffs on his wrists, nor the muzzle into place over his chin. Not when he was taken back to Asgard and placed in his cell. Not during the All Father’s visit, not as the healers poked and prodded at his emaciated form, First with sensors, then moving to injections and tonics, to cold salves to soothe the burning fever. Loki shivered, he did as they asked, but moved as though in a dream. Thor's brother, they said, resided somewhere far away from this physical body. Loki bore scratches upon his limbs from his own fingernails, bruises and scabs on his hands from walls and instruments. The tests, such as they were, were far from complete but they showed that what his mother had suspected was true: there were numerous old wounds and breaks from what must have been horrific torture. Broken, set, and re-broken and reset bones, scars all over his body. Loki had resisted any type of physical examination upon his first return to Asgard, proclaiming himself in perfect health apart from Dr. Banner’s smashing him into the floor a few days prior and being bored out of his skull. It never seemed plausible that he was anything other than what he said and things had proceeded accordingly.

 

“What fools we were.”

 

Frigga shook her head, watching Loki, back in his signature shades of green in the medical ward and yet, looking even less like himself than Thor thought possible. He simply stayed in bed, voiceless, sightless, mechanically moving, body still stirring despite being, apparently, long vacant. “We could not have known if he would not let us. Loki never troubled us with his ills.” She twisted her green signet ring on her finger. She watched Loki a few moments longer, mouth pressing into a thin line. “No interrogation did this. Not to my Loki.”

 

Thor put his hand on hers and squeezed, gently. “I do not think so, no.”

 

Frigga set her jaw. “But we have no proof.”

 

“Not unless we can pull something from their records. For that, I need the help of Anthony Stark. Further, it seems Loki was last seen speaking to him. Perhaps he can shine further light on what happened to him as well as aid our cause.” His mother stayed still, eyes flitting over Loki’s form a last time before she turned, drawing out a small device to check Loki’s vital signs once more. All normal, apart from horrible pain masked under a thick blanket of medication.

 

“You will travel to Midgard, then,” She touched a few places on the screen, bringing up more specific readings on Loki’s individual systems. “First thing in the morning.”

 

“Father will not be happy about that.”

 

Frigga snapped the device closed. “I will deal with your father.” She squeezed Thor’s hand. “I will sit with him a while.” She kissed Thor’s cheek. “I’ll advise you if anything changes.”

 

He nodded, retiring to his chambers, setting a matching device to Frigga’s on his bedside table. No amount of checking, fussing, or prodding at the buttons on the accursed thing seemed to make the numbers change. No amount of worry made his mother contact him to say Loki had woken up from his week long ruse to resume causing havoc for Asgard and the other realms alike.

 

Thor glanced at the timepiece above his mantle once more. Four hours until sunrise on Midgard. Another four, at least, before he would have any hope of reaching Anthony Stark to speak with him and ask his help. The night had somehow split itself into two halves, the first passing with the speed of tar and the second eaten away so quickly that the clock seemed to be malfunctioning.

 

No change in the light on the device.

 

The morning on Midgard could not come fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very special thank you to my beta reader, Hex. They made this into something fit for public consumption. 
> 
> Please leave a comment on your way out the door, even if it's just to call me an asshole for ding this to Loki. I understand completely. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. New chapters soon.


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